


Whenever Baby, I'm Yours

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 14:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16683679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: There's something to be said for the way that Joonmyun makes Sehun feel





	Whenever Baby, I'm Yours

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic, from the xunmians exchange
> 
> implied broken!sekai

Monday mornings, Joonmyun takes his coffee completely black, bitter, slow sips, content sighs, lips curled in a small, strained smile, eyes creasing around the corners. Starched button-up, dark blue tie, eyelashes heavy, pale skin just slightly bruised around the eyes.

_Mondays_ , he murmurs sometimes in Sehun's general direction, voice tight but soft, and Sehun nods dumbly along, trying not to stare too hard. (He’s so beautiful. It’s not _fair_ how beautiful he is).

Tuesdays, Joonmyun’s kinder to himself. Two creams, three sugars, stirred with slow, careful swirls, slow, careful hums. Tie purple, white button-up cuffed up to near his elbows, the veins in his arms dancing underneath his skin as he leans heavily on the break room counter, swaying slightly, inhaling deeply.

His lips are slick, puffy as the graze over the rim of his coffee mug—world’s best uncle. ( _Tuesdays_ , Sehun had made the mistake of saying once, just to _talk_ to him, and Joonmyun had blinked in surprise. And Sehun, _mortified_ , had abandoned that prospect forever, for _good_ ).

And by Wednesdays, Joonmyun’s outright indulgent. Starbucks venti, overpriced, long drags from a long green straw. Too phallic for Sehun’s sanity. At least this early in the morning.

And Joonmyun wears his red tie on Wednesdays, the color contrasting nicely against his throat as he hums out a bright greeting. Sehun can’t help the grin that tugs at his own lips—unattractive, he _knows_ —as he meets Joonmyun's warm, crinkling eyes.

(Sehun’s not there for Thursdays, Fridays—he has classes—but Zitao says there’s even _more_ whipped cream. That sometimes he’s even munching on a blueberry muffin, making these happy eating sounds, too. So _awful_ , Sehun.)

And Sehun’s only been here three months— _getting acquainted_ , his father calls it—but he’s got it _bad_.

 

And it’s not just the pouty puff of Joonmyun’s pink lips, the telling stretch of fabric across the solid breadth of his shoulders, across the tantalizing thickness his thighs. It’s not the punishing cut of his jawline, the sculpted planes of his face. It’s not just the sinful twinkle in his eyes sometimes, just fleeting. But enough, enough for Sehun to _know_ that Joonmyun could fucking _ruin_ him.

No, it would be better—easier, _cleaner_ —if that was the case.

But it’s not the physical, the carnal, the _hard_ —the hard that makes _Sehun_ hard, too.

It’s the soft, the consoling, the soothing. It’s the jolt to his veins at slow blinks and crinkled eyes and genuine smiles and soft laughs in the early morning. It’s the fact that, unlike the others, Joonmyun’s voice isn’t laden with contempt, burning with judgement or disdain for the rich brat. The fucking _shoe-in_. His future _boss_ by merit of birth alone. It’s his insistence that Sehun call him _hyung_ and make himself comfortable, this is longterm after all. It’s the assurance that Sehun’s seen as a _person_ , seen as _real_ , as _worthy_.

And he’s _not_ , not really. He _knows_ that. But it’s— _he’s_ so nice. Nice about it. Indulgent about it.

Even though he doesn’t _have_ to be. Nobody else is.

And he’s also handsome as _fuck_ and mild-mannered and soft-eyed and kind and patient. And calm and cool and collected. And at twenty-six, only five years older than Sehun, but so motivated and accomplished and driven. District manager. Well-loved. Charismatic. And _so_ fucking good. Somebody to be admired.

 

It’s Monday, and Joonmyun offers him a smile—sleepy, pretty, sincere—as he grimaces around a gulp of coffee—as black, as hot as his fucking _eyes_ —and there's something to be said for the stupid skip his heart does in that moment. The little stutter in his chest and on his lips as he murmurs back a quick greeting.

There's a _lot_ to be said.

 

But Sehun saves his words. Practically chokes on them on his way back to his desk. Tucks them away for later. Compartmentalizes.

 

For when there’s shade and the lazy drum of dragonflies, the whisper-soft kiss of the lazy breeze, the lazy drags of Jongin’s fingers against his wrist.

At noontime, there are no children at the playground. Just retirees. Ditching teenagers. Young professionals like themselves.

“He doesn’t—he just—he’s _hot_ ,” Sehun supplies, with wide, frustrated pantomimes. “ _Hot_ and so _nice_ to me, Jongin.”

Jongin hums around his Vitamin Water, eyelids heavy, dark eyes disinterested. But he’s his best friend, and best friends _have_ to. And Jongin’s a corporate brat just like him. Only a little less awkward, a little more charming. So he _understands_. Kind of. Tries, at least.

“He’s the—he’s the kind of guy that would kiss your forehead after a one-night-stand,” he grumbles.

There’s a flash of something fleeting in Jongin’s eyes. An almost memory quickly tucked away as he takes a sudden contemplative, sympathetic bite of his egg salad sandwich.

“He’d—he’d hold your hand and walk you home. Call it something dumb like a walk of memories, instead of a walk of shame. Or he’d—he’d do something like pay for cab fare and give you extra for pancakes. And he’d—he’d call you important or amazing—” Sehun lets out a loud groan.

“He’s so _lame_ ,” Jongin counters. “Hot as fuck honestly but _lame_.”

(Joonmyun isn’t just lame, though. There’s an undercurrent of steel. Sehun’s sat in on board meetings. When Joonmyun’s voice gets _hard_. When he argues back. Anger glinting in his eyes. Shoulders squared. And Sehun’s tie has felt to tight, his body too warm.

But that’s a conversation for another time, he prioritizes. Wednesday. Wednesdays are the worst for him.)

“But that’s why—why I _want_ him. And he’s not just—he’d fuck me _hard_. Really, really hard. But then nuzzle into my neck and call me _beautiful_ and _mean_ it.”

That brief glint again, and Jongin crumples his paper bag lunch, stretches long and slow across the ugly green park table, and lets out a heavy sigh. Sehun regards him warily.

And Sehun has a crush, but it’s not that _bad_. And best friends, best friends should _indulge_.

“You’re such a loser,” Jongin breathes after a beat. Probably the 1000th time since Sehun started _noticing_ , _complaining_.

Sehun smacks his arm. “Fuck you.”

“You’re too hot for this shit, Sehun,” Jongin drawls. “ _Honestly_.”

Jongin only kind of. Tries, at least.

 

Tuesday, Joonmyun remarks on his Sehun’s new watch.

Wednesday, he offers him a slice of cake from the birthday party. (It’s good for rapport, his father coaches, Jongin dismisses.)

And Sehun just—Sehun just _wants_.

 

Zitao, Zitao understands. Zitao appreciates.

And Thursday, Sehun takes a long drag from his water bottle, nods solemnly as Zitao—stretched long, lean, comfortable across Sehun’s usual table—recounts how Joonmyun patted his shoulder as they bumped into one another by the water cooler.

“He had to reach up, you know,” Zitao tells him, syllables stumbling into one another. “But it was _nice_.”

Sehun sighs, and Zitao shifts, takes a bite of his tuna melt.

Zitao’s an intern. Pretty mediocre—disorganized, easily distracted, petulant, not as fast as he really should be—but he’s charismatic and he _tries_. And he’s Sehun’s _friend_ and there’s said to be said for the weight of that alone.

“Yeah,” Sehun agrees breathily, motioning for him to continue. “Yeah.”

Tao points to a butterfly, stretches, groans. “His hand touches mine sometimes, you know. When he hands me his credit card. When I deliver his mail. When I pass memos. Our hands, they touch. And they’re good hands. Small but strong. Like the kind you want to hold for a really long time.”

And Zitao understands. Zitao can articulate. Zitao isn’t ashamed.

“Doesn’t he—” Tao sits up to look at him then. “Doesn’t he seem like the kind to fuck you against the copy machine?” Sehun groans. “And like, get toner and come all over your slacks?”

Tao nods furiously. He tips his head back, skull crashing melodramaticaly against green plastic. “And then walk you to the bathroom to help you wash it off. Maybe ask his secretary to buy you another pair.”

“Or one of the interns—you—” Sehun glances at him deliberately, and Tao frowns.

“I would kill you, Oh Sehun. I fucking swear.”

Sehun laughs, and Tao motions for him to lay beside him. Sehun crumples up his paper bag lunch before joining him. Tao is broader than Jongin, but softer.

“I’m not sure if he’s into men,” he complains—not for the first time—as he unfurls his limbs one by one, muscles lax but eyebrows furrowed, chest heavy. The sun is warm on his face, and Tao’s elbow grazes his as he hums in acknowledgment. “Into _me_.”

Tao’s fingers skate along his palm, before threading through his. He squeezes once, hard, and Sehun closes his eyes, swallows back another sigh.

“Crushes are awful,” he murmurs, and Tao’s thumb brushes lazy and reassuring against his knuckles.

 

That next Monday, Joonmyun reaches out to fuss over his tie. Rights his windsor knot with a soft tutting sound. And it fucking _burns_. His neck, his face, his _want_.

His shame. Later that night.

When Sehun’s got his tie stuffed between his lips, thick in his mouth, damp with saliva, as he grips himself tight, chokes around needy moans.

 

“It’s almost your 100th day,” Joonmyun tell him the next day. Humming over his coffee. “Friday, you know. Your father—your father was saying we should take you out. Company dinner. Company card.”

Sehun’s hip rests against the counter as he nods slowly.

 

It’s a Korean barbeque place near their work, and Joonmyun’s steps fall in sync with his as Sehun slows down to accommodate for his shorter legs. Joonmyun explains that his father thought it would be good to just have a one-on-one.

And Joonmyun always spends too much on birthday cakes. Invites everybody out for drinks. Makes sure to smile at Sehun even though he doesn’t feel like he deserves it. And that’s why he’s so amazing. That’s why Sehun finds himself gripping his glass tighter than necessary, taking nervous swigs with every subtle shift in Joonmyun’s body as he speaks.

“Maybe you could be my mentor,” he whispers softly, interrupting, suddenly bold as he leans forward over their drinks. “Make people like me the way they like you. Everybody likes you.”

“Not _everybody_ ,” Joonmyun responds with a soft laugh, and _Jesus Christ_ even that is obnoxiously charming. All straight white teeth, plush pink lips.

“Yes,” Sehun counters. A little louder than necessary because he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch, and he’s already halfway drunk on the sparkle in Joonmyun’s eyes in the soft overhead lighting. “Literally every single person in the entire world.”

Joonmyun laughs again.

“Everybody hates me,” he says simply, and Joonmyun makes a small, noncommittal hum. A small kindness. And Sehun knows it’s true. That he’s not wanted. “They just need—”

Sehun shakes his head, tapping his chopsticks idly against a sidedish bowl—pickled radish, sharp, bitter on his tongue—as he holds Joonmyun’s sympathetic gaze. “It’s fine, hyung.”

 

And there’s a girl, the table over and she smiles at Joonmyun over the rim of her glass, and Joonmyun smiles back with a raised eyebrow. And Sehun remembers with a certain heart-stuttering realization that _no_ he doesn’t know. And _no_ he’s not sure if it’s safe to just ask.

He takes another sip.

“I—um—I used to come out here a lot with my—my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—”

Joonmyun raises an eyebrow, blinks.

And it’s a lie. A blatant lie. Sehun’s never had a real boyfriend. Because he doesn’t count Jongin and their _experiments_ —Jongin, Jongin doesn’t count them either. And the hookups afterwards, in college—when he no longer felt the need to test his attraction—those hot one-night-stands that sometimes bled into lunch dates the next morning. Maybe heavy makeouts. Maybe almost tender repeats, but fleeting. But with expiration dates. No, Sehun doesn’t count them either.

Sehun’s truly only been here a handful of times with Tao. But he needs to know. His heartbeat pounds heavy and intimidating and fast in his own ears as his eyes dart up to Joonmyun’s.

Soft, but so dark.

And Joonmyun cuts in a with smile and Sehun thinks— _knows_ —it’s better to know now. Before he gets even more attached.

“On his nights to cook,” he continues recklessly, layering his lie. “He couldn’t—he was an awful cook.”

And Joonmyun isn’t speaking up, so Sehun continues. Rambles, tongue thick, his syllables slightly slurred from nerves.

“That’s not why—that’s not why we broke up, you know. Separate issue,” Sehun continues. “Boyfriends—they’re like—they’re different than girlfriends.” And Sehun _has_ had those. “You know just—just because you’re both men—it doesn’t mean that—women are—but men, you know, you can’t just pretend that you don’t _know_ or understand them because they’re the same—I mean women are _too_ —you know, _people_ , I mean—but boyfriends, they’re—”

“I know,” Joonmyun interrupts, he rests the warmth of his palm on Sehun’s hand.

And Sehun’s heart speeds up. His blood feels thick, hot in his veins, and Joonmyun’s hand is tightening around Sehun’s wrist.

“But you don’t—you don’t have to worry about me telling your father. I know it can be—”

Sehun blinks up at him. “He—he knows.”

Joonmyun nods. In something like sympathy. And fuck this wasn’t—he doesn’t want—

“It’s not—it’s not that heavy,” he murmurs. “It’s just—I just wanted you to _know_ ,” he finds himself saying and _meaning_. “It’s a kinda—it’s a big part of who I am, and I thought—you know—it helps you understand me.”

The hand not pinned under Joonmyun’s skitters across the wooden table, scrapes over the edge before falling back against his own face, tugging nervously at his own ear. He rolls his shoulders.

“Okay,” Joonmyun says. And this was _definitely_ not the point, but there’s this warmth blooming in his chest, spreading hot and slow over his skin, from where Joonmyun’s hand is cupping his own.

 

Joonmyun walks him home. Lingers outside his door. And Sehun thinks he’s going to right his tie again. Maybe fuss over the buttons of his dress shirt. But he blinks up at him expectantly. And Sehun just—

“Hyung,” he breathes, and then Joonmyun is leaning forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, following it up with a smile. He follows it with another and another. Kisses chaste. Fleeting. Soft. Barely brushing against his mouth. Barely anything. They leave Sehun chasing the warmth of his lips. The warmth of an almost.

“Hyung, I didn’t know—”

Joonmyun smiles against his mouth.

“I didn’t—I didn’t _know_.”

“Good night, Sehun,” Joonmyun says, pulling away, and Sehun trembles as one hand—small, but solid, firm, so so soft—skates along his arm, pausing at his own, and then just _cradles_. It’s almost like a kiss, Sehun thinks absently. In its tenderness. In its _want_.

“One more,” he almost says, but he bites his lips hard instead. Smiling shyly as Joonmyun’s thumb grazes his knuckles.

“Good night, hyung.”

 

“You’re kind of a brat,” Joonmyun chides softly, three weeks later, as he presses him against the desk.

_Press me down harder. Leave marks. I want to feel the paperweights digging into my back._

And Joonmyun tugs him down, by the nape of a neck into a kiss. Deep, slow, toe-curling, gut-churning. Firm, soft. Overwhelming.

Sehun moans into his mouth, and Joonmyun presses forward more insistently. And it just takes one tug at Joonmyun’s red tie, one swirling lick to his Adam’s apple, one breathy drawn-out hyung, and Joonmyun is groaning, stirring against Sehun’s thigh.

“Is that for me?” he breathes, slumping back, elbows falling against varnished wood. He’s reckless in his pliance, knocking over paperclips, splaying carelessly against papers.

And Joonmyun drags his nose along his jawline, stubbled chin scraping against Sehun’s sensitive, trembling neck.

“A brat,” he rasps as his lips drag slow and aching down his throat.

And Joonmyun _does_ fuck him hard. So fucking hard and deep and perfect. With rolling, fluid thrusts, bruising fingers, burning eyes, dirty husky praises. He has Sehun scratching long red lines down his back as he sobs through climax. And he _does_ nuzzle his neck afterwards. Pet reverently over his flushed, sweaty skin, fingertips slow and adoring as he whispers about how beautiful he is.

But that isn’t what this about—not right now.

Right now it’s about Joonmyun maneuvering his body, rocking his hips into him, dragging the heavy press of his erection hot and slow against Sehun’s clothed cock. Right now it’s about Sehun tangling his fingers in his hair, muffling Joonmyun’s moans as he licks his way inside his mouth, tasting every beautiful, breathy exhalation.

It’s about achingly perfect friction. Heavy, needy kisses.

It’s about the painful press of wood to Sehun’s hip. It’s about the starched material of Joonmyun’s slacks wrinkling with every enthusiastic grind, his pace becoming more frantic, fingers tightening against his hips as his moans become even breathier, forcing Sehun against him even harder.

It’s about Sehun knowing—fucking _knowing_ —that Joonmyun is close. Close, and fuck Sehun just wants—

“Come on my pants,” he rasps, disengaging long enough—with a slick, filthy pop—to breathe the command.

And Joonmyun’s eyelids flutter at that, dark eyebrows fluttering. “But you’ll—you’ll have to—”

“ _Please_ , I want it so—so bad.”

“Oh God,” he groans. “Oh _fuck_.”

And Sehun’s fingers are surprisingly nimble, surprisingly steady as they work their way into Joonmyun’s pants. He tugs them down with a breathless groan as he catches the damp spot on the front of Joonmyun’s boxer briefs , the strain of an erection tight against the blue cotton.

Sehun crashes forward against him, forehead knocking against his.

Joonmyun whimpers—high-pitched and needy—as Sehun licks his palm before gripping him, _stroking_. Sehun lolls forward to watch as Joonmyun—flushed, leaking, pulsing—fucks forward into his fist.

And it isn’t the first time—far from it—but he still wants to memorize the heft, the weight, the shape, the color. Still loves taking it in his hand, in his mouth, in his ass. Especially. _Especially_.

Sehun sticks his tongue out in concentration as he quickens his pace, thumbing along the head and teasing around the underside. Furrowing his eyebrows. Narrowing his eyes. And Joonmyun groans reverently.

“Fuck— _Sehun_ —fu—fuck—”

Joonmyun seizes, trembles, pants. _Comes_ right on his pants.

“I have extra—extra pants in my closet,” he manages, weak, reedy, voice rough with orgasm.

And Sehun is too horny, too hard still to point out that they probably won’t fit. But it’s Joonmyun that murmurs it, voice conversational, fingers teasing along the head of his cock, the heel of his thumb pressing down hard on the outline of his balls. There’s a white hot jolt of pleasure. He jerks toward it. Desperate for more. Joonmyun presses down harder, as Sehun grinds forward. And it’s two—three presses. And—and—and—

“I’ll—I’ll get my secretary…” Joonmyun murmurs softly, dragging it out with passing, teasing grazes of his fingers. Sehun whimpers weakly.

“No,” Sehun pants. “No tell—tell Zitao. He—he knows my size.”

Joonmyun smiles at him. Charming, wide, strained. Like he doesn’t understand but trusts him, nonetheless. And Sehun drags him forward for another kiss. Slow and soft, but firm. Perfect.


End file.
